


The Lion, The Bitch and The Goldfish

by Durel Roäe Lothron (TargaryenSlytherin)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Cannibalism, Crossover, F/M, Gore, Rape, Torture, Violence, derangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TargaryenSlytherin/pseuds/Durel%20Ro%C3%A4e%20Lothron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Moriarty faked his suicide, and believed Sherlock's jump, he finds himself in King's Landing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lion, The Bitch and The Goldfish

**Author's Note:**

> I did not mean for this to turn out as disturbing as it did holy shit.  
> TRIGGER WARNING for: cannibalism, gore, blood, violence, rape, torture, state of derangement

“Make him talk,” she commanded, “be gentle.” Ser Osmund Kettleblack poked him in the back with the tip of his sword. The man grumbled and coughed, and tried to shuffle forwards on his knees but was jerked back almost lazily by Ser Osmund.

“Your Grace,” the words tumbled from his mouth, gruff, broken. He was not from Westeros, she could tell, but she had never heard such a bizarre accent before.

“You may speak.”

“I have heard of … difficulties – you try to keep the throne … “

She sighed. _He barely speaks the Common Tongue._ She had no patience for this right now, but he had been caught skulking around outside trying to get in. That fool of a Kettleblack had insisted that she be there to question him. _He is pushing his luck. His cock isn’t worth my trouble to see some lowly common thief._

“King Tommen is as strong as ever. He is the rightful king and Stannis Baratheon does not have the strength to take it from him. The Seven will keep us,” she waved her hand, about to dismiss him, already thinking of having a long, hot bath to calm down.

“It is not. You lie. You need – Holmes.”

The hot water of her imagination boiled over in rage.

“You dare call your Queen a liar?”

“Shall I cut off his cock, My Queen?” Ser Osney suggested gleefully.

“No, I want his tongue before you cut off his cock. And then cut off his head and stick it on a spear. I feel like we have gone too long without some new decoration for our walls,” she purred.

“Nooo,” he whined as Ser Osmund and Ser Osney grabbed ahold of him to drag him off, “Holmes, Holmes, Sherlock, he can do anything, anything.”

“Shut up you piece of shit,” Ser Osney slammed his sword hand into his mouth, stopping his chant of _Holmes, Holmes, Holmes._

“No, stop. I’ve changed my mind. Don’t cut his tongue out yet, but make him talk. I want to know more about this Holmes and what he can do.”

“As you say, Your Grace.”

They lead him out, grinning. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

_Could it be possible that this Holmes could ensure the Iron Throne stays mine?_

She doubted it. He was probably just some sort of priest who boasted when he’d had too much ale, if he even existed. Tomorrow she would probably have his tongue, cock and head ripped off anyways. Maybe she’d even have his tongue and cock cooked and sent down to the Imp. What a feast that would be.

Cersei got up and retired to her chamber, ordering her maids to fetch hot water for that hot bath. She slipped into the water gratefully, and decided she might let Ser Osney fuck her again tonight. Maybe Ser Osmund.

That night the broken man crawled along the halls silently, cursing the woman in his head silently. He did not mutter his name now. He would save that for later.

Ser Osney was supposed to be guarding the Queen’s door, but tonight he was busy guarding the hole between her legs. Tonight he would see how well he could defend the whore’s perfumed cunt against other intruding cocks. His, for example.

Jim Moriarty lightly tapped his right forefinger against the heavy wooden door. The dried blood was caked beyond the second joint. It was not his blood. Not all of it.

He crouched, reaching up, wondering how grotesque he looked, squatting there hunched over like Gollum grasping for the door knob and repeatedly sliding off. Then he managed to grasp it and turn it back and forth trying to push the door open. He heard sudden movement and shuffled out of the way into the shadows, just as Ser Osney burst through the door half-naked, his sword in his hand.

Moriarty silently rose with difficulty and clamped a hand on Ser Osney’s mouth from the shadows, his other hand raking down his arm and he felt him scream against his hands, teeth raking against the broken skin of his palm. He winced. _Too loud, too loud. Even now, too loud._

His knee shot up between his legs, smacking against his unprotected cock as he clawed his broken fingernails into his hand and forced it back into his chest repeatedly. Ser Osney’s tongue and teeth were pulling off little pieces of his skin, burning against his blood. _Rude._

Back and back he pulled the sword, hacking repeatedly into his flesh, the hacks getting ever duller and duller. They were making too much noise, yet nobody ever came. He had thought the whore would scream, but she stayed silent. _The Lioness was smart._ He had to admit, that was sexier.

The body dropped dully, not quite dead, but dying. He tried to gurgle out words. His fingers might have been broken, but they still worked well enough, prying little pieces of flesh off of the body. Some of it he stuffed in his mouth. It had no taste to him. Nothing had any taste whatsoever, since he lost the taste of Sherlock Holmes. His only consolation was that John Watson would never be able to taste him with his tongue either.

He mushed the meat up with the teeth he still had left, but then let the ball of mush fall out of his mouth and land on the carpeted floor wetly. Soft feet were padding away in front of him, and he caught the bitch by her leg just in time. _She is brave._ A deep, guttural animal sound escaped the back of his throat. _Sherlock made that sound sometimes when he was about to spill all over me. And he called me John every single time._

Moriarty shoved Cersei back into her chamber, pulling the wooden door closed behind them, locking it. She backed away from him, standing in the corner while pulling at a red satin curtain to cover herself. Her breasts were already sagging a bit. _It’s so much easier without teats hanging off their chests. Sherlock didn’t have them._

“Stay away from me,” she commanded, “I will have you tortured, your family raped! I COMMAND YOU TO FUCK OFF.”

He thought about how her breasts reminded him of pudding. He had licked strawberry pudding off Sherlock’s cock once. Sherlock had licked it off his balls. Shame she didn’t have either, but she did have pudding-teats. That would have to do. He was still hungry.

“STAY AWAY!” she shrieked at him. She was losing her composure.

He stepped past Ser Osney’s discarded scabbard, then thought better of it and stooped to pick it up. It was a good beginning.

“What are doing, put that down, fuck off. I WILL KILL YOU. YOU CRAVEN, YOU DARE ATTACK AN UNARMED WOMAN. I AM YOUR QUEEN! THE KING IS MY SON AND HE WILL PUNISH YOU AND YOUR KIN – “ her words turned into a wordless scream. A thin line of blood trickled from her broken nose.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered, lifting his nibbled-at hand to caress her cheek, wet with tears. _The Lioness weeps._

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, sweetling. You are not some unarmed woman, you are – dangerous. I like that,” his lips burned into her neck and she tried to push him away, but derangement was stronger than the Queen’s wrath and fear. His warm tongue traced to her jawline as she continued screaming.

Suddenly she grabbed his face and raked her sharp nails along his disheveled face. _The Lioness has claws._

“Don’t worry,” he said calmly, wrenching her hands away, “I’m not mad. I admire your courage. It almost makes me … forget.”

His scarred cock was poking at her pink cunt, and suddenly he reached out and slapped her across the face. She screamed in frustration and slapped him back, harder. He giggled.

“The Lioness has … ferocity. Fire in her veins,” one hand crept up and clutched at her throat, like a drowning child clutching desperately for its mothers hand.

_Fire is for the Targaryens. It burned them. I am a Lion of Casterly Rock. I am Tywin Lannister’s daughter. This man is mad. Robert was kinder to me even while deep in his cups._

“Fuck your fire,” she choked out.

“I think I’ll fuck you instead,” he drawled pleasantly. His hands raced down her body and dug into her cheeks, slamming her against the wall hard. She hit her head and instantly felt dizzy. _Please,_ she prayed to the Mother, to the Maiden, the Crone, to anyone, _make it knock me out. Make me numb, let me wait it out. It worked with Robert, let it work with him too. I am the Queen and I will not be broken by another man’s abuse. I am a Lion._

“You’re so quiet, precious.”

_Stop ravaging my cunt, you piece of shit._

Cersei didn’t remember being dragged onto the bed, but here she was, among torn sheets dirtied with Ser Osney’s seed and whatever blood came off of this creature.

“So meek, so gentle. Have I misjudged you?” he wondered out loud while his fingers poked around between her legs. One of them had been stripped of its flesh, and another was partly chewed off, she saw, and somehow she thought it hadn’t been somebody else’s teeth that had been at work on that one.

Suddenly his skeleton finger slid into her cunt and she shriek hoarsely, wriggling. Her skin was breaking out in prickles, crawling with disgust. Cersei could feel his raw bone poking against her walls.

 _He enjoys this more than his cock does_ , she realized.

“Stop, stop, please, no more, no.”

His finger slowly slid out and slapped her face again; she could hear his finger clacking as it flew past her ear. A scream of anguish rang out as he bit forcefully into her teat; then he pulled his head back but didn’t let go of his grip on her.

_He’s trying to bite my breast off._

“No,” she whispered.

The Queen slid her hand down past his sides and grasped his bloody cock, trying to twist it clumsily. Her vision was blurred form her tears.

The broken man’s teeth squeaked along her nipple, tearing it half off and pain shot through her entire body, her chest throbbing. He screamed like a dying horse.

Clawing into her bloody arms, he threw her off the bed and onto the floor with raging strength.

“THAT IS NOT FOR YOU TO TOUCH. IT BELONGS TO SHERLOCK. SHERLOCK HOLMES.”

“Then go for you Sherlock Holmes and LEAVE ME BE! ENJOY YOUR TIME WITH HIM BEFORE I HUNT BOTH OF YOU DOWN AND TORTURE YOU TO DEATH.” she spit in his face.

“NOOO, SHERLOCK IS MINE AND NOBODY WILL EVER HURT HIM, NOT EVER, NOT EVER,” he laughed and turned to plant his torn cheeks on the Lioness’ face.

“He’s mine, he’s mine, and no one will harm him, no one will hurt him. Not John Watson, no more, no more, no.”

She bucked him off, catching him off guard. Her hair was tangled, her skin torn and her face twisted in rage. She slammed her body into him and he crashed against the corner off the bed, a sharp pain driving itself deep into his flesh. The whore slammed her fists into his face and his last few teeth came loose. He could feel an eye popping. His hand grasped the scabbard and he tried to shove it up her cunt once more, but she pushed him back to drive the corner part way up his ass.

Moriarty howled in pain, and madness gripped him. He beat at her and she beat at him, him with his scabbard, her with her hands and claws. He caught her by her golden hair and forced her head into the ground, stabbing at her cunt with the scabbard.

Her knee blew apart his cock and he lunged forward, biting at her throat with his teeth, clawing, kicking, screaming, slowing edging her throat away from her body.

He was falling into darkness, numbness. Sherlock was calling his name, moaning his name. No, he was moaning John’s name. He was always moaning John’s name.

Her throat spilled out with a sudden wet sound, and he fell back as the door broke burst into splinters and the rest of the King’s Guard ran into the room. Several swords pierced him at once, but he didn’t care. Sherlock was finally moaning his name and the whore had gargled at her Guards right before dying in front of them, naked, bloody, shamed.

James Moriarty came one last time, with Sherlock Holmes’ name on his lips and a thousand swords in his body, and then he died, leaving the guards with two torn corpses and a tale that would no doubt be put into song even far beyond Westeros.


End file.
